


Codify

by ironmermaidens



Series: Crown AU [7]
Category: Hermitcraft
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Dissociation, Flogging, Gen, Reluctant Whumper, Suicidal Ideation, Whipping, cold whumper, compulsion to obey orders, multiple whumpers, reopened injuries, whumpee turned whumper, whumper turned whumpee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29845029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmermaidens/pseuds/ironmermaidens
Summary: The Queen, angry at the King for taking their Consort’s discipline into his own hands, enlists the help of the Consort to punish the King.
Relationships: Welsknight/PythonGB
Series: Crown AU [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000731
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Codify

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a direct follow up to Fulfillment, I recommend you read that one before reading this to fully understand the context.

Warm sunlight streaming onto his face awakens him. Or perhaps it's the quiet chatter from across the room that does it. He recognizes the voices, some part of him knows, but he can't place from where. It isn't his King or his Queen. It isn't the Courtesan, nor the Oracle. It isn't the Cook.

The Consort opens his eyes and finds himself staring into a cabinet full of bottles and herbs and tomes. The bed he's laying in is too far away to read any of the labels on the items filling the cabinet, but he doesn't need them to finally jog his memory. He's in the castle infirmary. The voices he hears are from the nurses and the physician. He's not sure how he got here. The throbbing, painful heat he feels spreading across his back tells him why. 

He remembers his King's fingers looped through the band of his collar, dragging him through the castle and into the dungeon. He remembers being thrown to the stone floor as he had been so many times before. He remembers the whip. He remembers his King's boot in his face, and he remembers the final command his King issued him before leaving him there in a puddle of his own blood. 

_ Get yourself cleaned up,  _ he had said. _ And see to it you're back in my bedchamber before evening. _

He thinks it must be early afternoon, judging by the sunlight warming his face through the arched windows. It couldn't have been more than an hour or two since he'd been left alone in the dungeon. He still isn't sure how he got out. Did he crawl? How far did he make it? He doesn't remember the winding staircase or the heavy spruce door at the landing. He doesn't remember any of the macabre paintings his King had chosen to decorate the corridors with, or the suits of armor standing imposingly between them. 

The Consort takes a deep breath and pushes himself to the edge of the bed. It's not a very tall drop to the floor, but he knows it will hurt nonetheless. He drops one arm until his hand is pressed to the floor, as if he has the strength in him to break the fall. He tries not to think about it. He focuses on his goal, not the two feet of air between him and the floor, not the staircases and corridors between him and his King's bedchamber. He pushes himself the final few inches over the edge of the mattress, and greets the floor with a scream. 

The pain doesn't seem to just come from his back anymore, but all over his body, ripping directly at his heart and lungs and ribcage, clawing at him as if the whip his King wielded against him cut through his muscle to wrap around his spine, with thorns buried in his flesh pumping fire and poison into his veins. He almost wishes he were dead.

He feels hands gripping his arms, an urgency in the voices he'd heard before, still sounding so far away, though logically he knew they couldn't be more than a foot from his head now. He feels lightheaded, feels as if the heavy lead in the rest of his limbs was the only thing keeping him grounded. He only catches a handful of the words the nurses are exchanging, but it's enough to realize they intend to lift him back into the bed. He tries to struggle against them, but his body is too numb, the flare of pain from his fall slowly dulling back into the pulsing heat he'd woken up to.

"Nno..." he groans instead. "No... m—my King... chambers... I have... have to... before evening."

If the nurses hear him, they do not respond. Instead he hears them count to three, and all the pain returns at once. He's sure they must be tearing him in half. He's sure he won't survive. He's dying, he must be. 

He's not sure how he'll fulfill his orders if he's dead.

__

The first thing he registers once the haze of pain has finally worn away is a hand brushing a tangle of hair away from his forehead. It slides smoothly over his sweat-slick skin, and he flinches away at the sound of a familiar voice shushing him, flinches again when the jerk of his body causes another stab of pain in his back. 

"Be still, Prince," his Queen says, and he obeys. His breath falls from his lips in shuddering gasps. He thinks his fingers might still be trembling in pain, fear, but if it bothers his Queen, he says nothing. Instead his Queen's fingers continue to card through his hair, teasing away knots and tangles as they do. It doesn't make him feel better, to have his Queen treat him with such gentle kindness. He doesn't deserve it. He hasn't earned it.

"You almost died," the Queen says scornfully, and the Consort shrinks away at his tone.

"I—I apologize..." he responds, but the Queen's fingers disentangle themselves from his hair and press against his lips instead, silencing him.

"You have nothing to apologize for, my Prince," the Queen says. "Or was it by your own hand that you were whipped?"

The Queen pulls his fingers from his lips and the Consort stutters. "N-No, my Queen..."

"As I thought," he says, as though the Consort had elucidated some murky detail of his punishment. It makes his cheeks feel too warm when the Queen speaks to him like that. He had a particular way of making the Consort feel stupid. "You would not betray your King and Queen, would you, my dear Prince?"

"No, my Queen," the Consort responds automatically, and it is the truth, he thinks. Even as the Oracle's treacherous prophesy whispers in the back of his mind. The Queen's hand moves to stroke his hair once more.

"Of course you wouldn't," the Queen agrees. "Such a good, loyal pet. The King was out of line when he punished you, wasn't he?"

The Consort whimpers. It's an unfair question. He could not answer without contradicting either his King or his Queen. The Queen smiles at him, his indecision, as his fingers comb through the Consort's hair.

"Poor thing," he says, his fingers finding their way down the Consort's jaw, pulling his chin up to examine his face. He imagines it's not pretty, whatever the Queen sees. He's sure the King has broken his nose this time. He breathes through his mouth, afraid it might hurt to breathe otherwise. 

"I will not allow his actions to go unremarked upon." The Consort feels the lip of a bottle against his own, tilting up before he can protest the cool liquid that slides into his mouth, down his throat in desperate swallows. He feels a warmth through his body, then a cold, and the pain in his back, his elbows, his nose, all seem to numb. He chokes on the last few drops from the potion, coughs wetly and embarrassingly, but the Queen seems not to mind. He pulls the bottle from the Consort's lips, a light tap of glass on wood as it’s set aside. "And you, my dear pet, are going to help me."

The Queen stands and offers a hand to the Consort. "Come now, my Prince."

The Consort takes his Queen's hand, lets the other pull him to his feet, the ache in his back dulled by the potion to a burning sting and the vague sense that his shirt was sticking to him more than usual. He doesn't know what role he's meant to play. He doesn't want to find out. The Queen leads him out of the infirmary, hand in hand, the Consort's stomach squirming uncomfortably as they go. 

"My Queen," The Consort says, eying the yellow-orange, late afternoon light through the passing windows. "My King has ordered me to your bedchamber, before evening."

"Oh, my dear Prince," The Queen says, clucking his tongue in amusement. He shakes his head and says no more, and it does nothing to ease the anxiety the Consort feels as they walk through the corridors in the opposite direction of the King and Queen's quarters.

When they reach the final staircase to the dungeon, his breath no longer falls even from his lips. The Queen strokes his thumb over the back of the Consort's hand, as if to sooth him. Instead, it only serves to make him more acutely aware of the tingling needles in his back and his nose and his knees. He thinks he might be bleeding again, and that was why he could feel the pull of cotton against his skin so clearly. Whatever potion his Queen had given him had done wonders to block his pain. He wonders if he will feel it all sevenfold when sensation returns. That seemed like the kind of cruel prank his Queen would enjoy.

The Consort's legs shake as they make the climb downward into the bowels of the castle, more than they had on any other staircase. The Queen wraps an arm around his waist to support him, a condescending little _tut tut_ noise on his tongue as he does. He feels the Queen's arm against his back, and the pain of his grip is enough to make his vision swim even through the effects of the potion. He presses himself to the Queen's side desperately, and feels a purr in the Queen's throat at his endearing weakness. 

His strength, however, is renewed by the sight that greets them at the bottom of the stairs.

Shirtless and kneeling, tied to an iron bar with rough ropes on raw wrists, was his King. 

"My King?" the Consort squeaks, pulling away from the Queen's grip, intent to rush to his King's side and release him from his bonds.

"Stop," the Queen says calmly, and the Consort freezes in place. The Queen steps past him to look down upon the King disdainfully. "The King has been naughty, doling out punishment for crimes uncommitted. I've been too lenient with him, it seems."

The King growls, and it doesn't sound threatening the way it does when the Consort has done something to displease him. He sounds like a trapped animal, frightened and vicious. "I am the King—"

"And I," the Queen interrupts, voice echoing so profoundly off the walls that it silences all other sounds in the dankness of the dungeons. "am your Queen." 

He kneels then, cups the King's chin in his hands, the clawed nails of his fingertips pressing ever so lightly into his skin, but it is enough to make the Consort's own cheeks burn. "And I am the Executioner of your will, am I not?"

The King's face softens into acceptance. Even in the dim candlelight the Consort sees the anxious anticipation that remains in his eyes. "You are, my Queen."

The Queen's grip on his jaw tightens until beads of red form at his claw tips. "Then do not do my job for me, my King."

He releases the King's face then, shoves it away as if he is nothing more than table scraps to be cleaned by the maidservants. He moves to the rack of tools then, examining them for qualities unknown to the Consort.

"My Prince," the Queen says sweetly, and the Consort's eyes widen, head jerking to watch the Queen with rapt attention. "Do you recall which of my toys the King used to punish you?"

He swallows back a reflexive whimper and lets his eyes sweep over the various floggers, pliers, and knives the Queen kept in his collection. His eyes land on the braided handle of the whip lain in between a cat o' nine tails and knout that he recalls his queen to have woven the barbs into personally. He nods. "Yes, my Queen."

"And which one was it, dear pet?"

He points to it. "The signal whip, my Queen."

The Queen smiles. "Ah, what an excellent choice."

He plucks the whip from the rack and brings it to the Consort, pressing the handle into his palm and curling his fingers around it until his grip is firm. The Queen's hands are smooth against his shoulders as he pushes the Consort forward, legs still stiff with his prior orders, until he is standing within range of the King. 

"There we are..." the Queen says pleasantly. He lets go of the Consort's shoulders then, ignores the way his hands tremble under the weight of the whip, and says, "Let's begin."

The Consort doesn't move. His eyes are wide, taking in the rapid rise and fall of his King's back as he breathes, the minute twitches of his hands as he pulls against his restraints, as if this time he might break free of his bonds. He knows what his Queen is asking of him. He can't seem to get his body to cooperate.

"Strike him," the Queen orders brusquely when his patience wears thin. The Consort draws his arm back, then brings the whip snapping down on his King, a low whine in his throat at the sharp intake of breath he hears when the leather makes contact with skin. The Queen _tsks_ as if disappointed.

"No, no, no, no, your form is terrible," he says, his hands finding their way to the Consort's shoulders once more. He feels the Queen press against his back, the shift of fabric against his numbed wounds itchy, feels one hand resting on his hip as the other takes hold of the hand with the whip. "Like this, Pet."

This time he moves as directed by the Queen, pulling his arm back until his back is stretched into discomfort, then snapping forward so quickly he can't help but yelp as if he could feel the way his own lashes tear back open. The King does not yelp with him, but he jumps as his back welts where the whip hits. 

The Queen lets go of him, and his arm feels like slime without his support. "Try it again, like I showed you."

He brings the whip down on his King and this time elicits the same reaction his Queen had as another welt joins the first on his King's back. His King breathes deeply through the pain, a pain his Consort needn't reach far back into his memories to recognize.

"Good," the Queen says. "Very good. Now, keep going."

It is an order, and so he does keep going, moving stiff and mechanical as he draws back and strikes as his Queen showed him, a rhythmic pattern of cracks and gasps until the King is visibly shaking, his back no longer pink but red, shining with blood to match his Consort. The Consort doesn't know if the ache he feels in his own shoulder blades is real, or imagined in his sympathy. How long before the potion's effects wore away and left him a knot of pain much the same as his King? 

His cheek's feel wet, wetter still with every ragged, whining breath his King takes. He whimpers at his Queen's pleased hum, nearly cries out when the King finally lets out a cry of his own. He hates this, the pain of his King, and knowing he was the cause. The Oracle's prophesy rings in his mind again, and he wonders if this is not the true betrayal that had been called for. He desperately wants this to end. He doesn't want to think about it any longer. He forgives his King. Why couldn't his Queen forgive him as well? 

The Consort brings the whip down on the King's back once more, and his movement is arrested as the King begs, "Stop!"

He's grateful for his reprieve. He nearly lets his arm fall to his side in relief that his ordeal was finally over. But the Queen makes a displeased sound, and he says, "Keep going. We aren't finished yet."

He can't hold his cry back this time as his arm is forced into the rhythm of drawing back and snapping forward, cracking against his King's back, a canvas already torn ragged and bleeding. 

"Stop," the King says again, his voice raw with pain. The Consort stops, his lips pressed together against hysterics as he waits for the Queen to contradict the King once more.

"Keep going," the Queen says coolly. He keeps going, hiccuping with half suppressed sobs.

"Please," the King cries, sucking in a breath as the whip strikes him across two deep lashes, droplets of blood shining in the candlelight. "no more. Stop."

The Consort stops.

"Keep going."

He keeps going.

The push and pull of his King and Queen's orders tug at him, making him feel sick to his stomach, making his head feel light. He hates it. He hates this. He has known for so long his own powerlessness in the face of his King and Queen, but he has never felt it more acutely than he does now with the jerking start-stop of his own body. He wants it to end. 

It does, eventually. It feels like a lifetime. Maybe it has been. The potion that eased his pain had begun to wear off, though he didn't recall when. His back burns. His shoulders shake with heaving sobs. His tears had dried up long ago, leaving his eyes and cheeks raw. The King's pleading had died on his tongue long ago.

"Stop," his Queen says, and he does, the whip slipping out of his fingers and to the floor in a writhing coil. He nearly falls to his knees beside it. The Queen ignores him, ignores his pain and his anguish as he steps around the Consort and to the King's side, kneeling once more beside him and lifting his head in his hands. "Oh, you poor thing. We'll have to get you cleaned up now, won't we?"

In the back of his mind, the Consort knows he should return to the infirmary, allow the physician to look at his back, to pick the fibers of his clothing out of his reopened wounds. He feels so tired. He just wants to sleep. 

"You're dismissed, Consort," the Queen says, snapping him out of his thoughts. His voice is cold, detached, uncaring. He doesn't bother with sickly sweet pet names now. "Leave us."

He wants to say something, anything, but he can't form the words. He doesn't know what he would say if he could. He turns and walks stiffly to the staircase. He doesn't remember traveling up and out of the dungeon this time anymore than he does the last. Distantly, he is aware of the ache in his back, the sharp pain of every reopened lash and the pull of his blood soaked shirt against his skin and the weakness of his knees. He has standing orders to be to his King's bedchamber before evening. He doesn't want to go to his King's bedchamber ever again. 

The Consort comes back to awareness as a fat drop of cold water lands on his cheek. He blinks, finds himself standing in the gardens, under his favorite tree and nearly sheltered from a drizzle of rain that had moved in while he wasn't paying attention. He shivers against the cold. It's dark, and he can't tell if it's because of the weather, or the time. He should go inside. He knows that he should. He has orders. Before evening. But which evening? He feels in the back of his mind that he'd already missed his window of opportunity. He fainted in the dungeon that day. It was the only explanation. Who knows how many followed in the infirmary. He feels a twitch in his muscles, some part of him demanding recompense for his failure to obey. 

Another drop from the leaves above falls, landing on his head. His back hurts. It hurts to move. It hurts to think. He should go inside. To the infirmary. To his King's bedchambers. Somewhere other than here. His King would be angry if he fell ill from his own negligence. But he doesn't care. It surprises him that he doesn't. He thinks of the prophesy, and at long last a bark of laughter, pained and tearful, tears out of him. It was a joke. It had to be. The only way he would ever escape his King was in death. 

His knees finally give under him, and he falls to the ground, mud squelching under his fingers as sobs rip from his chest, every one of them punctuated by a stabbing pain from the lashes on his back, reopened after days, months, years. Here in the garden was his smallest freedom from the King and Queen. They might not look for him until it was too late. He collapses into the mud, curled up on his side, shivering and bleeding. He prays they would be too late.


End file.
